A Lesser Reckoning
by dust on the wind
Summary: Sooner or later, the reckoning has to be paid...


_I do not own any of the characters from the series Hogan's Heroes._

_Cover image: Theodore Rousseau (1812-1867), "Le chêne brisé dans la forêt de Fontainebleau"._

* * *

As usual, the road which led from Stalag 13 to the town of Hammelburg was in need of repairs.

"I don't see why we should break our backs fixing up their potholes," remarked Carter, pausing for a moment and leaning on his shovel.

"It's quite simple, Carter," replied Colonel Hogan. "The rain last week has made this stretch of road so bad, it's practically impossible for a staff car to get through. Unless it's drivable by Friday, Klink won't be able to go on his date with Fräulein Kitty, the exotic dancer at the Paris Revue. If he doesn't go on his date, then he won't give Kitty the jade necklace he bought for her, and she won't get her hands on the microfilm of the Third Army battle plans which we hid in the lining of the gift box. So then we'll have to find another way to get those plans to the Underground."

"Besides, sometimes we have to use this road, too," added Newkirk. "And these holes are getting to be a ruddy menace. That one up by the bend in the road is so deep, if you listen, you'll hear the call of a woolly mammoth who fell in and can't get out."

"And we can't have that, can we?" Hogan concluded. "We owe it to the rest of the mammoths to make a good job of it."

Carter tilted his head, considering the argument. "Well, as long as it's in a good cause..." he said at last, and set to work again.

Hogan stood back, watching his men. Even though he was neither required nor expected to take part, he made a point of going with his men whenever they were assigned to a work detail, just to make sure no abuse of authority on the part of the guards spoiled the day out. Of course, he wasn't expecting any trouble, not with Sergeant Schultz in charge, but it never hurt to be careful; every so often, even Schultz got a little carried away with that whole "master race" idea.

LeBeau bustled past pushing an empty wheelbarrow. "Kinch wants to talk to you, _mon Colonel_," he mumbled.

One of the guards was standing nearby, so Hogan couldn't acknowledge the message. He waited a few moments, then, as if bored with standing still, he strolled along the road to where his right-hand man was at work, wielding a mattock with easy, rhythmic strokes. At the colonel's approach, he stopped digging, and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

"There's someone watching us, Colonel," he said in a low voice. "And I'm not talking about the goons. Over there, hiding behind the trees. He's trying not to be seen, but I caught sight of him a couple of times."

"Anyone we know?"

"I couldn't get a good look at him."

Hogan scanned the woods which bordered the road. He couldn't see anyone lurking behind the undergrowth. "Damn it, Kinch, why do you have to be so gosh-darned reliable?" he growled. "Think you and the boys can keep the guards occupied while I go and check it out?"

"Sure thing, Colonel."

LeBeau was heading back, his barrow now full of gravel. He caught Hogan's eye, nodded his understanding, and without losing a beat allowed his unstable load to tip over, directly onto the feet of the unsuspecting Schultz.

A howl of alarm from the guard, and a torrent of incomprehensible Gallic apologies and excuses, alerted the rest of the party to a situation more interesting than road repairs. Within seconds, Newkirk joined in with a strongly-worded reprimand, directed towards the innocent party: "Well, if you'd been watching out like you should have, Schultz, none of this would have happened. It's lucky LeBeau wasn't hurt."

"It was not my fault," snapped Schultz, hopping on one foot. "I was just standing here, minding my own business..."

"Exactly. You need to be more careful in future," said Newkirk.

Schultz went red. "I didn't do anything, it was him. Carter, you saw what happened, you tell them."

"Well, gee, Schultz," replied Carter, "Newkirk says it was your fault, and seeing as the English are on our side, and the Germans aren't, well, I gotta believe Newkirk, even if I know he's wrong."

Kinch gave the colonel a grin, and went to help things along; and Hogan, waiting only till he was sure all the guards were distracted, crossed the road and slipped in amongst the trees.

The forest was still damp from the heavy rain which had done so much mischief to the road, and he turned up his collar and pulled his cap down low to protect himself from the water dripping from the leaves above. He went slowly, and so quietly that his quarry, crouched against a tree-trunk watching the fracas still developing on the road, had no idea he was there until he spoke: "Okay, pal, what's your game?"

The lurker spun round. For a few seconds they stared at each other, before Hogan gave a soft laugh. "Leslie Smythe-Beddoes. Gotta say, you're about the last person I expected to see."

She flushed, and glared at him. "Since you left me to the tender mercies of the Gestapo, that's no surprise."

"That was nothing to do with me," said Hogan, with a shrug. "I'm just an ordinary prisoner of war."

"No. You may be a prisoner, but there is nothing ordinary about you." Her clipped, cultured English vowels jarred faintly on his ear. The accent was all that was left to remind him of the attractive, self-assured woman he had met before. Dressed in old, shabby clothes which looked as though she'd stolen them from a farm labourer's clothes-line, her fair hair hidden under a grubby cap, and with a weary, hunted air hanging over her, she might almost have aroused his compassion had he not known her for what she was: a barefaced, unrepentant traitor.

"You tricked me," she went on. "You made a fool of me, on a live radio broadcast which was heard by the whole of Germany. Everyone who heard it now thinks I deliberately set out to make fun of the Führer. If I hadn't managed to get away before the Gestapo arrived, I'd be dead by now."

"Well, that's the down side of throwing in your lot with the Nazis," replied Hogan. "It's all fun and games, until someone gets offended. Still, as long as you can stay on the run, I guess you'll be okay. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

"I need your help," she broke in abruptly. "I have to get out of Germany."

"You need help? Sure thing." He jerked his chin towards the deeper forest. "Switzerland's that way. If you start walking now, you might get there by Christmas."

"I'd never make it. You know what will happen if they catch up with me. I'd be better off throwing myself in the nearest river." She hesitated, then went on, in a very low voice. "I'm sure you think I deserve whatever happens. But if you have any sense of compassion, then please - I'm begging you..." She trailed off in a murmur of hopelessness.

"What makes you think I can help you?" asked Hogan.

"I don't know. But you're my only hope."

The commotion among the other prisoners was dying down, as the diversion ran out of steam. Hogan weighed up the situation, then nodded. "I have to get back to the others, before I'm missed. I'll see what I can do, but I'm not making any promises. Be here tonight, at midnight. Agreed?"

She gave a hollow laugh. "Where else would I go?"

Hogan didn't bother to answer her. He turned and hastened back to the road, where Schultz, more agitated than ever, greeted him with flustered recrimination: "Colonel Hogan, where were you? You know you are not allowed to go out of my sight, not even for a moment."

"Gee, Schultz, I just went to pay a call of nature," said Hogan.

"Well, don't do it again. From now on you stay where I can see you." Schultz limped away, muttering under his breath, leaving Hogan to join his men.

"Did you find him, Colonel?" asked Kinch.

Hogan looked back at the forest. "I sure did," he said.

* * *

The road looked very different at night. A thin mist lay on the low ground, softening the light of the moon into a diffuse glow and spreading in wisps amongst the trees.

In spite of the strongly-worded objections of his men, Hogan had come himself, and alone. He knew the risks. Leslie Smythe-Beddoes was a defector, a traitor to her own country. She couldn't be trusted. For all they knew, she'd made a deal with the Gestapo. This whole set-up could be a trap.

"And that's exactly why I have to be the one to meet her. Whether we bring her back to Stalag 13, or leave her to find her own way out of Germany, it's up to me to decide. And I can't make that call until I speak to her again. That's my final word on the matter. Understand?"

They understood, all right; but they didn't have to be happy about it.

So here he was, preparing to meet a potential informer, on a cold, deserted road hemmed in by the darkness of the woods, with the fog growing denser by the minute. Business as usual, in fact.

He wasn't at all sure that she would be there, or that they'd even find each other in the mist. But she must have been watching for him, and as he got to the rough section of road, a dark and indistinct form emerged from the trees and came to meet him.

"I didn't really think you would come," she muttered.

"Well, I'm here. But don't assume that means you're saved. I haven't made up my mind yet. Even if I had the means to get you out of Germany, I'm not sure you're worth the trouble."

"I could be useful to the Allies. I know a great deal about the Führer and the German High Command, through my work with the Ministry of Propaganda." Her eyes were fixed on him, wide with desperation. "I know many of them personally, as well. I can tell you all about them. That must be worth something."

"I guess the more often you switch sides, the easier it gets."

"This time I have no choice."

"Unlike the last time." Hogan's eyes hardened. "Tell me something. Why did you do it?"

She bit her lip; he couldn't tell, in the silvery light, whether she had the grace to blush. "You'll think me contemptible."

"Probably no more than I already do."

For a few seconds she hesitated, then she lifted her head and looked him in the eye. "I came to Germany before the war, and I liked what I saw. I wanted to be part of it, and not just as an onlooker. I wanted to have influence, and to be known, and admired... and rewarded..."

"Well, you'll get your reward, one way or another," said Hogan. "Let's just think about what happens if I help you get out of Germany. The only place I'd even think of sending you is England. You'd be in the custody of the Underground the whole way, and you would have no chance of giving them the slip. You'd be going straight home, and I guess you know what's waiting for you when you get there."

"Yes, I know." Her voice shook slightly. "I've thought about it constantly, since I escaped. In fact, it's something I've thought about for much longer. In a way, I suppose I always knew that one day there would be some kind of payment due."

"There always is, one way or another."

Her eyebrows drew in as she contemplated her options. "Then the only decision I have to make is, which reckoning is the lesser of the two? Trial in a London court on a treason charge, or the Gestapo, and no trial at all?"

"Sounds like you've already figured it out." Hogan paused, studying the play of her emotions. "So, what's it gonna be?"

She sighed softly, and gave him a rueful smile. "Send me home, Colonel Hogan. I'm ready to pay my reckoning."

* * *

_Note: a postscript to "Who Stole My Copy Of Mein Kampf?" (season 4)_


End file.
